


The Witcher and the Ranger Walked into a Tavern

by Hyrulehearts1123, sageclover61



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Faramir is Aragorn's son not Denethor's, Faramir is aragorn's son, Faramir-as-Aragorn's Son, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, We got cavities writing this, did I mention that this is a crack au?, soft Aragorn | Estel, there was only one corner table
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyrulehearts1123/pseuds/Hyrulehearts1123, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageclover61/pseuds/sageclover61
Summary: and there was only one corner table in the back of the tavern.The crack au nobody asked for, with enough soft broody fluff to give you a mouthful of cavities.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 21
Kudos: 138





	The Witcher and the Ranger Walked into a Tavern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AltyEx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltyEx/gifts).



> This fic would not have been possible if /somebody/ hadn't linked me to a super awesome [tumblr post.](https://altyexcray.tumblr.com/post/618533120513359872/sageclover61-this-your-name-all-over-it) It was also heavily inspired by the music I was listening to, which has been shuffled together for those who are interested in it.
> 
> [ Faramir and Jaskier playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1pO7GiYzVxQVZBt6Ms7iTo?si=_Tl_MoohSM-X7NgngWXh2w)

There was a whole country to the east of The Continent. Nobody was quite sure what had populated it with humans, as it definitely hadn’t been during the Conjunction of the Spheres that had populated The Continent, and nobody was quite sure how old the humans there were.

There was one good pass through the Blue Mountains into the far lands known as Middle Earth, and most people didn’t bother migrating because there were plenty of populated places on The Continent to live, and the rumors about the people over there weren’t always good ones. One of those rumors was about how they didn’t have Witchers, so most of the population had been wiped out by monsters, and those orcs.

Another reason most people didn’t go to the _other_ continent was because everyone knows the pass is guarded by an entire school of Witchers.

Geralt was… different. They’d put him through an entire set of extra mutations because they’d decided he’d taken them so well the first time. He did what he was told for years, following the Path around the Continent, taking all the contracts and getting paid _or not paid_ in coin. And then, a few years after the sacking of Kaer Morhen during a season that he hadn’t returned home, his Path led him into Middle Earth. Partly out of spite, as Witchers were discouraged from going there, and partly because that was where his Path led him.

The hobbits in the shire were friendly folk, even towards Geralt. He killed a few monstrous pests that were terrorizing their fields and not only did they pay him substantially well, they also invited him to eat with them and fed him better than he’d ever eaten. They ate significantly more than the halflings he’d met in the Northern Kingdoms, and he was not quite sure how they could pack it all away, but they didn’t seem to mind when he ate almost as much as they did due to the metabolism going through the trials twice had imparted on him.

Other years he explored Eriador and Duneland, sometimes going as far as Rohan.

He discovered after a misadventure in Fangorn Forest that nobody actually cared to have the killer spiders cleared out.

* * *

One year, he traveled so far through Middle Earth as to reach Minas Tirith, the city that might as well have been the capital of Gondor. There was a nice tavern in the fourth circle so he bought an ale and sat at the corner table in the back. It was his favorite table in any tavern because it meant that nobody could get behind him and he could see the entirety of the room. It also meant that it was unlikely for anyone to approach him because they were likely to never realize that he was ever there.

This tavern was not one of the most rowdy taverns that he’d been to, but it was not too loud for him to let the noise fade into the background.

They did not know what Witchers were in Middle Earth, but most who tried to classify him as something lumped him in with their rangers and he was chill with that, as long as they didn’t try to rope him into the ranger training exercises, he didn’t _need_ to practice with a bow and arrow, he had a decent enough crossbow that did the job well enough when a crossbow was the right weapon to be using, which it wasn’t, most of the time.

And most of the time the humans didn’t want to pay for the destruction of their monsters, which wasn’t ideal, he needed to eat just as much as everyone else, but it was still a nice break from the rest of the monotony of the Path, and if he was traveling with Rangers they didn’t make him pay for food. He tried not to do it too often, but it felt nice to be welcomed, even if it was just because they had no idea about who or what he was.

Geralt was thinking about where he was going to spend the night when someone in a dark green grey cloak slipped into the chair across from him.

The Witcher raised an eyebrow at the ranger sitting across from him. He had found that the rangers were more likely to approach him than the average human, but they didn’t usually plant themselves at his table. He said nothing, wondering if the ranger would get bored and walk away.

“Which group of rangers are you from?” the stranger asked after his tankard is about a third of the way gone.

Geralt shrugged, looking back out into the tavern. Witchers weren’t supposed to have feelings and they were certainly not supposed to get attached, and yet more years than not his Path led him onto a different Continent altogether than the one any other Witcher ever had. Vesemir hadn’t said anything, but he could almost feel the judgemental eyebrow watching him as he rode Roach away from Kaer Morhen in the opposite direction than everyone else.

The ranger seemed to decide that Geralt preferred to sit in silence, so he didn’t say another word as they sat for hours, just watching the people in the tavern. It wasn’t an awkward silence, the ranger didn’t seem like he was waiting impatiently for Geralt to speak at all, and Geralt didn’t really care whether or not the other ranger ever left. He wasn’t a bother, if anything, it was curious how he was content to sit there and watch with him.

Eventually, long after Geralt would have gone to bed were he human, the ranger stood again. “Today I go by Thorongil,” he said. It was a slightly strange way of introducing himself, but Geralt just nodded without inclining his own. Rangers tended to die in increasingly odd ways and not giving his name meant he wasn’t getting attached.

* * *

Geralt ended up giving his own name to Thorongil during one of the next times they shared the back table in the tavern in Minas Tirith. By the time Geralt left Minas Tirith a week or three later, he was pretty sure that he had run into Thorongil in every single tavern in Minas Tirith. Thorongil had offered little about himself and Geralt had offered even less, and yet the ranger had never offered any complaint at sitting in complete silence for hours and hours.

Once or twice, _half the time_ , Geralt had even arrived after Thorongil had taken _his_ seat with his back to the back corner of the tavern.

That could not stand.

“You’re sitting in my seat,” he said, once he was standing next to where Thorongil was sitting.

Thorongil smiled at him. “Geralt! You’re welcome to join me, but I don’t think I’m going to move. I think you’ve been hoarding the better view all to yourself, and I _must_ see this for myself.”

Geralt huffed a “Hmm,” and then took the empty seat. He didn’t _really_ care about which seat he was sitting in, but he had an image to maintain, and complaining about it was fun.

The ranger seemed almost smug about Geralt taking the seat across from him, so the Witcher considered his options as he quietly drank his beer. He didn’t actually want to hurt the ranger, but it was all in good fun to rile him up. It didn’t take them too long to finish it, so he went to refill their tankards from the front bar as he considered his options. He was feeling a little tipsy and a little tired and there was _possibly_ a score to settle. He wasn’t sure.

“You’re still sitting in my seat,” he said, putting his own tankard down in front of Thorongil, and the ranger’s tankard across from him.

“I really am enjoying the view from here, I can see why you like it so much,” the ranger said. “But you’re still welcome to join me.”

Geralt considered, and then, noticing that there was a decent gap of space between Thorongil’s chair and the table, and deciding that the ranger could probably support his weight without being hurt or injured, sat down on his lap. “You’re right, the view from here _is_ perfect.”

Thorongil picked up Geralt’s tankard and took a large gulp from it.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

“Mine’s way over there and since I can’t move, _unless you_ want _me to drop you on the floor_ , I guess I’m going to have to drink out of this one.”

Geralt grumbled, but mostly for show. He put his hands over Thorongil's, around the tankard, and lifted it towards his own mouth for a drink. If he cared about Thorongil drinking from it, he'd just remove it from his hands.

With a chuckle, Thorongil pressed a kiss to the back of Geralt's head.

Geralt stiffened, before relaxing. The contact was strange, and unlike nearly anything else that he had ever experienced, but…. It was almost pleasant. He wasn’t about to complain while Thorongil was there, at least. He might decide not to do it again, and Geralt wasn't sure he was ready for him to stop.

* * *

The end of the summer found Geralt at a tavern in Rohan. It had been a long month and he hadn’t been sleeping because he’d been too busy tracking for something he’d heard rumors about and he’d been concerned it was the kind of thing that would wipe out an entire city. He’d done the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do.

He’d gotten attached. Spending time with Thorongil, even if it was only in the evenings in various taverns, had made his long wretched monstrous life almost seem worth it again. Vesemir would lecture him on growing soft, but he wanted this one thing that was more than he was ever supposed to get, and he wanted to fight for it. Why shouldn’t he?

Meditation wasn’t supposed to be a long term alternative to sleep, but he’d gone ahead and used it for a month, and now he was in Rohan. Which should have given him the opportunity to rent a room in an inn for a night, but money for monster hunting was hard to come by in Middle Earth, and he’d discovered that not sleeping was really good for his budget.

Meditating with a focus on healing certain parts of his body, something that the second round of mutations had only improved on, had revealed that he could also meditate instead of eating, killing two birds with one stone.

Which meant his budget could take the hit from drinking the copious amounts of alcohol required to forget the kind of unnatural shit he was doing to his body, and give an excuse for him to be meditating at the back corner table of the tavern.

Thorongil joined him twice, and on each occasion, Geralt managed to pull himself out the meditation before Thorognil could notice anything was wrong. Geralt was feeling quiet, no words in the murkiness of his thoughts, but they’d spent many tavern nights in silence before.

But the third- Geralt’s head was foggy with what could have passed as being tipsy and he hadn’t had a sip of alcohol yet.

“So that’s your secret! Are you really sleeping back here? Is that why you always insist on the back corner table with your back to the wall? So that no one will ever know that you’re really asleep?”

Geralt could hear the ranger, but his body didn’t want to listen to the commands he was giving it, and he _barely_ managed a “Hmm? Fuck, no.” Had he been drugged? It felt kind of like he’d been drugged, but he hadn’t had anything to drink yet, and he hadn’t eaten in days, so that wasn’t possible.

“Geralt?” Thorongil sighed, but Geralt couldn’t see what expression he was making because his eyes wouldn’t _open_.

That didn't mean that Geralt could not feel as the ranger gripped his hands under the table.

If Geralt were capable of expressing tears, which he wasn't because the mutations always altered the tear ducts, he might have cried at the physical contact. Thorongil touched him so easily when no one else ever had, even before the trials.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, one of these days.”

“Not possible,” he ground out. He’d already outlived the ability to make any new Witchers, and so many other Witchers had died during the sacking of each of their schools. They were a dying breed. One of these days, he’d get too slow, but with his luck he’d probably survive it anyway because he’d already managed to survive and do things that most Witchers hadn’t even thought of.

“You’re right, because I won’t let anything kill you while you rest properly for once. When was the last time you slept? Eaten?”

Geralt shrugged. At some point in the last month he had probably done both, but it was also possible that he hadn’t because he couldn’t remember.

“ _Right_. I think we’d better find you a bed, and something to eat. Probably a broth, if you really haven’t eaten in so long you can’t remember when it was.”

Geralt winced. His coin purse was not going to appreciate that expense. He tried to object. There was nothing wrong with just sitting there in the corner and brooding.

“Nope. You’ll have to let me take care of it. Come on, I already took the liberty of renting a room upstairs.”

He tried to object, he really did. He knew that rangers didn’t have the best income, there was no reason for Thorongil to be spending his hard earned coin on _him_. But Thorongil wouldn’t hear of it, and even threatened to carry him up the stairs if Geralt wouldn’t move.

  
Thorongil did end up having to help Geralt up the stairs, but not for lack of trying on Geralt’s part. It turned out that if he didn’t give his body enough sleep or food it would eventually stop doing what he wanted it to do. But as Thorongil slung his arm around Geralt's back and put Geralt's head on his shoulder so he was leaning on the ranger, he couldn't bring himself to care about the fact that he was trusting the ranger so deeply because _he did trust him_.

* * *

Summer came to an end, so Geralt had to return to Kaer Morhen or risk being unable to reach it before the first snowfall that would make it impossible to trek home. It wasn’t a requirement that he or any Witcher return home every winter, but he wanted to. He liked going home and spending the winter with the other Witchers who were like his brothers. Most years it was just him and Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir. Sometimes Eskel brought Coen from the school of the Griffin and sometimes Lambert brought Aiden, one of the only cats consistently welcome to Winter at Kaer Morhen after the almost massacre at the Witcher Tournament in Ard Karraigh.

Geralt didn’t bring anyone. He didn’t have any of his own friends among the other Witcher schools, none that he would invite home to winter in the keep.

  
And now that he was pretty sure he loved the ranger who currently called himself Thorongil, he couldn’t bring him home because he was _human_. It was disappointing, but life was full of disappointment and he should have been used to it.

* * *

Geralt saw Thorongil most of the years that he went to Middle Earth, but not all of them. He didn’t always make it as far as Gondor in a hunting season, it was a long trip and there were so many other places to go and hunt while he was in Middle Earth.

The Shire remained his favorite, the food and the hobbits, but it was especially far to travel to get back to Gondor after visiting the shire. But sometimes Thorongil, who now went by Strider, could be found at the first tavern in Middle Earth, the Inn of the Prancing Pony, in Bree.

“You’re in my seat,” Strider said, almost appearing at Geralt’s side out of nowhere, with two mugs of ale in his hands. It was almost a habit to reuse the stupid old line now, but Geralt didn’t care, nor could he help the smile he made.

“I don’t want to get up.” They hadn’t tried that exact response yet, but Geralt hoped that it came across as a challenge. He wanted to say, ‘I missed you,’ or ‘I’m glad to see you again,’ but the words stuck. He wasn’t supposed to care if he never saw Strider again, but he also knew that it would hurt forever if something happened to Strider.

Strider considered him with a lazy grin. He weighed his options, and then sat on Geralt’s lap after placing both mugs on the table in front of him. “I don’t think I shall ever get up," he said, then pressed a lazy kiss to Geralt's cheek.

“Then it’s a good thing you brought that ale with you.” He leaned forward, putting his arms around Strider, and resting his chin on his shoulder as he reached for the second tankard.

Strider kissed his nose.

They drank slowly, and the silence was comfortably filled with quietly exchanged kisses, and then, in the wee hours of the middle of the fucking night, Strider said, “I already got a room for tonight, do you want to come upstairs with me?”

And Geralt nodded slowly with an “I’d like nothing more. Done teasing?”

Strider twisted slowly, a soft smile forming as he intentionally shifted. "Not just teasing," he whispered, leaning close to kiss him.

He moved to hop down from Geralt's lap, but the Witcher caught his wrist with his hand, and then carefully stood, pulling the ranger into his arms with one arm supposing Strider's knees and the other supporting his back.

The stairs were in the back of the inn, so nobody would see Geralt as he carried Strider up the stairs, but nobody would have walked around behind Geralt and Strider to get to the stairs. Either way, they managed their trip up the stairs with no one any the wiser, and they were happy with that.

Strider unlocked the door with the key from the barkeep, and Geralt closed the door behind them once they were inside.

They had a very good night, and it was no less than either one of them deserved.

* * *

They continued to find each other in taverns across Middle Earth, although the length of time between visits began to grow as Geralt and Strider were both increasingly busy with their own Paths, especially Strider.

One year, Geralt decided to visit Rivendell, one of the Elven capitals. He had not spent much time with the elves of Middle Earth, but he found them significantly more bearable than the Eldar of the Continent. Even if they could still be pompous asses.

Except in Mirkwood. Apparently they used the giant human eating spiders as a method of preventing travellers entry and he didn't approve. 

Geralt was certain that there would be a tavern in Rivendell. It was "The Last Homely House" or whatever that was supposed to mean, hopefully that meant they had homely things like a tavern.

He needed an ale. Or a beer. Possibly something stronger. It was a shame that the Witcher mutations meant that he couldn’t get blackout drunk, he could have really used the help getting to sleep.

Geralt stood in the shadow of a tree, leaning against it as he looked down the hill towards what had to be the town of Rivendell.

So which building was the tavern going to be in, anyway?  
  
“Hello, Stranger.”

Geralt turned his head. Strider had materialized out of the shadow of the shrub next to the tree he was leaning on, because of course Strider would be here. He said nothing, just continuing to scan and study the village below, even as Strider stepped closer and hugged his side.

“I don’t think I’ve told you this,” Strider said, “But I grew up here.”

The Witcher glanced at Strider. For once, the ranger’s hood was down. Strider was human. Geralt knew that, had known that, but it was still odd to hear from him that he had grown up in this elven village.

Strider smiled and kissed him. “Ada’s fostered humans from time to time for generations.”

Geralt nodded. He wasn’t sure why Strider was volunteering the information, but decided it didn’t matter, and let it drop. He looked back down at the village again. When Strider did not seem inclined to break his reverie, he finally said, “Is there a tavern here?”

“Glorfindel’s in trouble with Ada again, so all the spirits are in my room or Ada’s room. Do you want to come with me to my room? It’s a bit past lunch but I haven’t eaten yet so I could call us some food and after a nap perhaps I could introduce you to Ada?”

_Strider wanted to introduce him to_ his dad.

After a moment of consideration, Geralt realized that oddly enough, he wasn’t afraid of the attachment that represented. He should have no interest in meeting Strider’s father, and yet… he was only curious.

Food and a nap did sound good. “With some ale?”

Strider laughed. “If that’s what you want. Come on, I’ll show you.” He pulled out of the hug and Geralt only had a moment of regret before Strider was taking his hand to lead him down the hill.

* * *

Strider’s room was on the third floor of the biggest building in Rivendell, the one at the edge of the waterfall with the beautiful view. The walkway was covered, but it was more like a balcony than a hallway as the side away from the doorways had a simple low fence-like border that allowed for the viewing of the gardens and sparring area.

“It’s been a few years since I’ve been home,” Strider said suddenly, as he reached to open a door on the right. “But I’ve missed it. Here we are, this is my room.”

The room was simple. The bed was made with fresh linens, and there was a pitcher of water and a bowl on the chest at the foot of the bed. There was a bookshelf of books across from the bed, next to a nice writing desk, and there were doors out onto a balcony on the other side of the room. Hanging above the glass doors, there was a planter. Geralt recognized it as a weed that grew on the Continent and in Middle Earth, but he couldn’t remember what it was called.

“Are you thirsty?” Strider asked as he poured some water into the bowl.

Geralt shook his head, so Strider drank the water in the bowl and then poured more. Once he had drunk his fill, he put the bowl and the pitcher on the desk. Then, he opened the chest at the foot of the bed, revealing several different alcohol choices in nice glass bottles. “I’m thinking we could drink a bottle of ale with our food, and then maybe get into the stronger spirits after I’ve introduced you to Ada.”

Geralt shrugged. Whatever Strider wanted worked for him.

Later, Geralt wasn’t sure exactly how Strider had done it, but food arrived without there being any sign that Strider had summoned someone to bring food, and there was enough food for both of them that even with Geralt’s unusually high metabolism, he could eat his fill. It was the first time he’d eaten his fill since his last visit to the Shire.

Afterwards, Geralt and Strider sprawled out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was quiet, peaceful. Strider had changed into something more comfortable than traveling clothes and had convinced Geralt to take off his armor so he was just wearing his black breeches and tunic.

Their heads were pressed together and at some point Strider had thrown his arm across Geralt’s stomach and Geralt was holding his hand. They didn’t speak, but there were no words that needed to be said. They were comfortable, they were happy.

At some point, about three hours later,Strider shifted up the bed to soothe a cramped muscle and Geralt, warm and exhausted and _lonely,_ pressed his head against Strider’s raised knee.

Geralt could _hear_ Strider smile at him before the ranger ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “You’re so soft,” Strider whispered.

A part of Geralt wanted to rebuke the comment, but the words wouldn’t come, and he was too comfortable to sit up and glare at Strider. It was okay for Strider to see this side of him. It had to be. He dozed off to Strider continuing to comb his hair with his fingers.

* * *

Strider invited Geralt to eat breakfast at the back table in the kitchen, and Geralt was pretty sure the table had not originally been there, but how could he say no to Strider adjusting the space _for him_.

“Thank you,” he managed, before reaching out to hold Strider’s hand under the table. Geralt didn’t think the words were enough to convey his gratitude for all the years of Strider’s company. He wasn’t sure that even all the words of someone eloquent could be enough to thank him. But he _wanted to_ , even if it was just thanking him the only way he could.

Breakfast was scones with jam and butter, followed by a course of bacon and eggs, followed by ham sandwiches, and Strider seemed inclined to keep putting food on Geralt’s plate until the Witcher couldn’t eat another bite.

Strider had also made a pot of tea to start with, adding leaves of what Geralt recognized as the plant growing in his room. They had finished eating their breakfast but were still sipping their last cups of tea when the kitchen door opened, revealing an elf lord.

“Good morning, Ada,” Strider said, with a yawn that Geralt was not sure was entirely real. “Ada, this is Geralt.” Strider squeezed Geralt’s hand once under the table, reassuring, but then loosed without letting go.

Geralt realized that was because Strider was letting _him_ choose whether or not to let go of his hand.

He didn’t want to let go. Mouth feeling suddenly dry, he brought the cup of tea up to his mouth. It tasted good, but he hadn’t been able to figure out yet what it smelled like yet.

Strider continued, “Geralt, this is my Ada.”

“Elrond,” the elf supplied after a moment. “It’s a pleasure to have you here. And good morning, Estel. I missed you at dinner last night, I hope you slept well?”

Strider yawned again, and this time Geralt realized that maybe he had been mistaken about the first not being an honest yawn. “I did,” he said, which was definitely the lie. “Do you want to join us? I think there’s some scones or bacon or ham around here somewhere.”

“That’s alright,” Elrond said. “I’ve already eaten. But I wouldn’t say no to a cup of Athelas Tea, if there’s any left.”

“There is,” Strider assured him, already pouring another cup with his free hand.

‘Estel?’ Geralt mouthed at Strider. He hadn’t intended to, not when it was obviously personal. If it wasn’t something Strider had decided to share all on his own, he wasn’t supposed to be pushing. It went entirely against the whole “don’t get attached” thing.

Strider squeezed his hand again, and then held out the cup of tea towards Elrond. “I’m going to give Geralt the grand tour of Rivendell, but I have to head back to Gondor either tomorrow or the next day.” He looked back at Geralt. “Are you ready to go?”

Geralt nodded. “Sounds good to me,” he managed carefully.

* * *

Geralt was trying to meditate from high up in a tree above the roof of the building overlooking the waterfall. He’d considered meditating on the roof, but while humans were notorious for not looking up, the same couldn’t always be said of elves, and he just wanted to be alone.

It wasn’t that he felt unwelcome in Rivendell, he was just confused. Strider had needed to return to Gondor, which was understandable, but he’d insisted that Geralt could, _should,_ stay in Rivendell, in his room, even, for as long as needed or wanted to. And that he was welcome to eat as much as he liked, and if he didn’t feel comfortable eating in the large hall with the rest of the elves, there was always food to be had in the kitchens.

And Geralt was confused. This was in line with Strider’s previous hospitality throughout their shared visits, but what he didn’t understand was why Strider felt so strongly that the rest of Rivendell would just… fall into line with whatever demands he’d made for Geralt’s benefit.

Good things didn’t happen to monsters like him, and he’d already overstayed his welcome, letting Strider feed him such a large breakfast the first morning. Elves didn’t have the same cultural hospitality of the hobbits, he knew that. _Why had he let Strider persuade him to eat so much?_ It was always harder to go back to light rations after gorging himself until the never ceasing hunger pains were gone.

He should go. But where to? Trailing on the path back to Gondor would feel like defeat, and it was too early to return to Kaer Morhen. He bit his lip, ignoring the taste of blood. There were no easy answers. There never were.

Movement at the edge of his vision drew Geralt’s attention back to the roof of the building down below, where Elrond was now sitting, holding an open book.

There was no way down without drawing the elf’s attention.

Geralt stayed still and silent well past the time when all the elves went in for lunch, but Elrond continued sitting on the roof reading his book and preventing Geralt from feeling comfortable enough to get down and go find Roach.

After a while, Elrond closed the book he was reading, but he made no move to get down from the roof. After an even longer time, Elrond finally looked up. "I'm sorry if my being up here makes you uncomfortable, Geralt. That wasn't my intention. You're welcome to stay in Rivendell as long as you'd like, I'm glad you've been such a good friend to Estel."

Geralt said nothing, but the elf's words didn't help to soothe the feeling that he was overstaying his welcome. It felt wrong that he was being invited to stay just because he and Strider were close. Strider wasn't even still here, he'd gone back to Gondor. Why hadn't he already been chased out of Rivendell with flaming torches?

"You're a Witcher, right? If it would help you feel more comfortable, there's a pack of wargs to the north if you feel like hunting them."

* * *

"Have you ever been to the tavern in Dale?"

Time and Geralt didn't get along. It was years after Rivendell, but he couldn't say how many. He and Strider fell into bed together, or sat in silence in taverns, and did not run into each other even half as much as either wanted to.

They never talked about _that._

Geralt shook his head. He had heard of the human settlement north of Mirkwood, and even of a party of dwarves that had gone to slay the dragon in the mountains, but he hadn't seen much point in going.

He didn't like Mirkwood's decision to allow the killer spiders so much leeway to kill any visitor. It would backfire someday, when there were too many spiders for the elves to manage.

It was nearing Autumn, and was about time for Geralt to head back to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

"We should go," Strider said. "We should go now. If you have the time, that is?"

Geralt swallowed. There was no way that he could both go and return to Kaer Morhen before the snow made it too dangerous to return home.

But he wanted to go to Dale. It wasn't even that it was _Dale_ , he just wanted the opportunity to spend a solid amount of time with Strider and if he was offering…

"I would love to," he found himself saying. "I just need to send word I won't be home for winter, this year." He didn't _have_ to, everyone skipped the occasional winter, but he didn't want them to worry about him. Especially since his tendency to wander Middle Earth meant that none of them would ever find out if something happened and he had died and he didn't want to scare them like that yet.

"Of course." Strider's smile was magnificent, and Geralt wanted to kiss him until he never stopped.

* * *

Wintering in Dale wasn't the most exciting winter Geralt had ever had, and the tavern was kind of sad, but wintering there did mean that they'd run into some dwarves of Erebor who invited them to their tavern in the mountains.

Like Rivendell, it was less a tavern and more just a hall for everyone to drink as much as they liked. But even better, Geralt and Strider were granted permission to climb to the very top of the mountain.

From which they could see Kaer Morhen.

"That's my home," Geralt said quietly, pointing towards the castle in the far off distance. "I've gone home every winter for a long time." _But not this year_. The sentiment went unspoken, but it didn't need to be said. Strider already knew it was winter and that Geralt was with him.

"I would love to see it someday, Geralt," Strider said, reaching for his hand.

Geralt swallowed. He didn't not want that, but all he could think of was how humans weren't welcome at Kaer Morhen, and how it wasn't suitable for humans.

Too many crumbling walls and cave ins.

But that didn't stop him from saying, "Maybe someday," because Strider had retaught him how to want things for himself.

Strider pulled Geralt into a hug and Geralt wanted to be hugged as much as Strider wanted to hug him.

Strider was infinitely more touchy-feeling than Geralt's brothers, so he was the only one who really touched him with any amount of tenderness, and Geralt craved it.

Craved it like a man dying in the desert craved water.

With little thought, Geralt kissed Strider right on the lips. _I love you,_ he thought. He couldn't say them, yet, his throat closed at the very thought, but he wanted to.

Somehow, both instants and eternities later, the pair pulled apart, but it was not a sad parting. Strider raised a hand to cup Geralt’s cheek, smiling brightly as he rested their foreheads against each other. No words were shared between them, but none were needed, as they held each other there, in a place where it seemed no one could ever reach them.

* * *

Strider owned a musical instrument. Geralt supposed it was almost a right of passage, given his being raised by elves, with their love of music.

Actually, Strider probably owned more than one musical instrument, but those were not relevant.

This one was relevant because Strider was playing it for him.

He didn't know what instrument it was, but as he reclined on their bed and listened to the soothing notes that were just for him, the details didn't matter.

They were in Rivendell again. Strider had gone home to visit his family again and Geralt went where the Path led him. He could feel that it was going to lead him back to the Continent soon, so he was going to have to say goodbye sooner than he ever wanted to. 

Even humans weren’t always free to do as they wanted, Geralt had learned, something he’d thought they did have, at least enough that he’d once envied them for their freedom.

“If you’re not enjoying the music, you could have asked me to stop.” Strider was smiling, clearly uncaring even as he’d taken Geralt’s loss of attention to mean he wasn’t enjoying it. He leaned the instrument against his desk.

Geralt shook his head, then beckoned Strider over. “My thoughts wandered,” he said by way of explanation. There had been nothing wrong with the music. It was pleasant.

“Alright.” Strider crossed over to the bed and laid down next to Geralt. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s almost fall.” Geralt would have to return to Kaer Morhen soon or risk being unable to return once the snow blocked the pass.

“It is,” Strider agreed, leaning forward to kiss Geralt’s forehead. “Have you decided when you’re leaving?”

Geralt nodded. He’d have to leave in a few days, there was no putting it off any longer. “I have something.” He’d wanted to give Strider something, a present that _meant_ something, and he’d finally come up with something and had made it earlier. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a close replica of his medallion. It didn’t hum with power the way that his had ever since the Trial of the Medallion, but that didn’t matter.

Strider carefully took the amulet from Geralt’s hands. “It’s beautiful,” he said, before pressing a kiss to Geralt’s forehead.

“I…” Geralt swallowed. His throat closed around the words he _really_ wanted to say. He tapped his fingers against Strider’s wrist in frustration, and then, with a sigh, managed, “I don’t know when I’ll be back to Middle Earth.” He could feel in his bones that as much as he might want to return to Middle Earth again and again every year that his Path would lead him back out into the Continent the following year, and he couldn’t say beyond that.

“That’s okay,” Strider said. He kissed Geralt again, and then pulled him close.

* * *

It was the following spring that Geralt met Jaskier in Posada, and it was the first year that he'd returned to the Path through the continent in a handful of years. There were no expectations of running into Strider in the Continent, because Strider had never left Middle Earth and possibly never would.

Except when he was approaching the tavern in Posada, he could have sworn he could hear Strider.

It wasn't Strider. The bard was a brightly dressed barely more than a youth, who could have been a young Strider in appearance and it made his chest ache as he sat in the back corner watching.

The music wasn't so bad as one might have expected it to be from the way the townsfolk were reacting, and from the way the bard carefully picked up all the edible food being thrown at him, maybe he was doing whatever it was that he was doing, intentionally.

"They're. Not. Real." Those weren't the words he wanted to say. They weren't wrong, but he hadn't intended to come across in such an acerbic tone.

Geralt hated words, and hated his inability to express the things he wanted to. The bard's song had not been so bad as the townsfolk had suggested and he had wanted to express one, _one,_ good thing to soften that and he had not managed even that.

And the bard's bubbling personality and inability to take offense at that, it only made the worsened the permanent ache in his chest only ever soothed by Strider.

* * *

"The white wanderer" coming from Jaskier's name almost earned the fool a punch to the gut, but Geralt refrained, if only because of his youth. It could be worse, so much worse, like whoever had gone and gotten themselves the title "Butcher of Blaviken", but it was still an epithet reserved for Middle Earth and should not have come from the bard's mouth.

Jaskier, as the bard called himself.

It was obviously not the bard's real name. His taste in clothing suggested someone who had grown up in an upper echelon of society and they didn't generally name their children after plants.

Geralt couldn't remember what plant the Jaskier was, that wasn't the common name of whatever it was. He learned over time that Jaskier had studied at Oxenfurt, but he never ever talked about anything before that.

He didn't ask. It wasn't his business and any words he might have were better put to other uses.

* * *

Geralt cared about Jaskier and making sure he stayed out of trouble, enough so that he ended up traveling through Middle Earth less because running into Strider was never a guarantee, and Jaskier really did need protection, Strider could take care of himself.

Even if every moment away from Strider worsened the ache of longing in his heart.

* * *

Geralt wasn't sure how long he'd known Jaskier, maybe almost a third of how long he'd known Strider. He knew intellectually that humans aged quickly, but Strider still seemed to be in the prime of his life, and after almost twenty years, Jaskier was still just a youth.

Jaskier was loud and bubbly in all the ways that Strider wasn't, but Geralt found it endearing. Especially since it never seemed to bother Jaskier that Geralt mostly "Hmm"ed and "fuck"ed his way through life.

Sometimes… sometimes Jaskier held complete conversations with him, as if he'd figured out what each sound Geralt made meant.

Maybe he had.

* * *

After traveling with Jaskier for months, Geralt was looking forward to a quiet drink at a corner table in a tavern. The tavern was sure to be noisy, but without Jaskier’s flamboyancy to draw attention and encourage everyone else to bother him, he should be left alone. He was still a witcher, after all, and some people were still wary of feared him despite the positive public relations approach to his image Jaskier had done for him.

He hadn't needed it, _he_ wasn't the poor "Butcher of Blaviken", but it helped all the Witchers, but it was nice.

It had been a few years since he'd seen Strider, the same year he had last gone to Middle Earth, and he'd heard rumors of a darkening and monsters about, so he went to Bree.

There would be no other Witchers and he felt obligated to do what he could.

The tavern was quiet, when he arrived. Still on edge, almost as though in wait of something big about to occur. There was one table in the back corner. It was unoccupied, so it would be the perfect place to go unnoticed and he could finally have an ale in peace.

“Can’t say I’ve seen you here before, but you ranger types are all the same,” the barkeep said as he poured an ale at the bar. “Kept the table in the back reserved just like always.”

With a gruff, noncommittal, “hmm”, Geralt retreated to the designated table. He wasn’t a “ranger” type, but the people of Middle Earth still thought of him as such so he ignored it.

Watching the room, Geralt was almost pleased when it did eventually liven up. It was loud, but that was familiar, and it was easy to let it fade into the background. So much so, that he almost missed the cloaked figure entering the tavern and then almost reappeared out of the shadows next to him.

“You’re in my seat,” the newcomer said. “That wouldn’t normally be an issue, but tonight is important.”

Geralt studied the cloaked figure. Strider didn't generally make such an effort to hide himself, but maybe whatever he was talking about really was that important. “I’m not moving.” They never did. He could _see_ the tension in Strider's shoulders and wished there was something, _anything,_ he could do to help.

He wanted more than anything to reach out and touch Strider, but he could see that now was not the time for such a display. Instead, he simply motioned to the empty seat across from him. "Sit." Curse the gods who had taken his words from him, he couldn't even _ask_ the love of his life to _sit down_ without having it come out as a gruff demand. 

Let alone maybe _tell_ Strider how much he loves him.

After a moment, Strider sat across from Geralt. With the tension in his features, it didn't surprise Geralt that Strider didn't feel like playfully sitting on his lap as he had in the past, and he wished that he knew what was going on in Middle Earth that was casting such a long shadow.

Strider didn't say a single word, and Geralt didn't have the words even mentally to try to figure out what he could or should ask. A normal person, maybe even a normal Witcher, could have managed a "How are you?" Or "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Geralt didn't have those words, so they sat in tense but not uncomfortable silence until the scene caused by the hobbits led to the ranger’s hasty apologies before he intervened.

* * *

Geralt found quite a bit of work in the area around Bree, and then the area to the East. The pillaging armies of orcs and goblins left ruin and waste in their wake, attracting all manner of ghouls and necrophages, as well as wraiths of all sorts. There had never been so much work for so little pay, but times had been hard for the humans here. Geralt understood that.

There were rumors of a rising dark lord and a small quest to defeat him. Geralt paid only a little heed to those, he wasn’t one to get involved in the affairs of mortals, after all. That didn’t mean he didn’t sometimes wonder how his brooding Ranger, Strider, Aragorn, was doing, but he was an emotionless Witcher ™ who was too busy fighting humanity’s monsters _and the wayward orc/goblin/warg_ to get closer and find out.

Strider was capable of handing himself, and it wasn't his job to go protect him, but that didn't stop him from worrying, so he threw himself into the hunt and making Middle Earth safer even if its inhabitants didn't appreciate his efforts.

Geralt didn’t participate in the War of the Ring. He didn’t fight at Helm’s Deep, or Gondor, or the Siege of the Gates of Mordor. But he did kill the ghouls and necrophages and buried or burned the dead. Whoever said that this was the war to lead humans to the 4th age was not wrong, and Geralt had no business interfering or fighting it for them.

Nobody ever said the 4th age was going to be the age of Witchers.

* * *

Geralt had never been to Lothlorien before. He'd heard that like Rivendell, it also didn't have a tavern. But he was kind of following the route Aragorn was taking and it wasn't like he had as much issue with the elves here as with whatever the fuck was going on in Mirkwood.

An elf did welcome him with a bottle of Elven spirits, and that was weird, but Geralt had long since accepted that sometimes, Middle Earth was just a strange place.

Opening the bottle and taking a deep draught, he found a quiet out of the way place to sit and drink. This city or village of elves was built high up in the trees and Geralt didn't feel that it was at all appropriate for him to simply climb one of the ladders as he'd seen the elves randomly doing earlier.

What if he ended up in someone's bathhouse?

It would be highly inappropriate and he probably wouldn't be able to find the words to apologize profusely and he'd rather not cause any unnecessary fights, if possible, so he was just going to sit here and not be in the way.

If there _was_ a tavern, which there wasn't, but if they did have one, it would probably be well marked and _nothing_ was marked.

After a few hours and it had grown dark, and Geralt had almost finished the bottle, Aragorn almost tripped over him.

"Hey, Stranger," Geralt almost managed properly. He was relieved to see that Aragorn was at least okay physically, and the tension in his shoulders was different from in the Prancing Pony.

Aragorn immediately pulled Geralt up off the ground. "What are you doing out here?"

Geralt didn't try to answer.

"No, no. That doesn't matter. There's no reason to stay down here when there's a perfectly good place for us to share. I'll show you where it is."

Geralt followed blindly, as Aragorn led him up one of the ladders that led to a walkway between trees and then across the bridge to one of the little tree houses, which they then entered.

It was pretty similar to Aragorn's room in Rivendell.

"We can spend the night in here," Aragorn said, taking off his cloak and sitting down on the bed to remove his boots. "It used to be Ada's daughter's room, she's Lady Galadriel's granddaughter, but she went to the undying lands with her mother a long time ago."

Geralt didn't really know what the undying lands were, but he knew that when the elves set sail in the west, they went to a place no one else could go.

Again, just a strange Middle Earth thing.

"Would you like help with your armor?" Aragorn asked.

Geralt shrugged, and stepped closer as he started working on the buckles so that Aragorn could help, and then they laid down together. The Witcher liked the closeness, that he could see and feel that his ranger was alive beside him.

Aragorn admitted he wouldn't be there when Geralt awoke, but that was okay. Geralt was just glad they could have this moment now.

* * *

Geralt had to return to Kaer Morhen. The war hadn't begun in earnest, but it wasn't his fight, even as he wanted desperately to ensure that Aragorn would be alright.

But he'd already agreed to meet Jaskier in the spring and there wouldn't be enough time to get there if he didn't winter in Kaer Morhen.

So he went to Kaer Morhen, and then in the spring, Jaskier never showed up at the meeting place.

So with a very heavy heart, Geralt rode hard for Gondor.

* * *

That was how Geralt found himself in Minas Tirith. Everyone knew that Aragorn son of Arathorn had been crowned king of Gondor, with speculation that it wouldn't take long for him to be high king. The humans were ready for that.

There was no way it wasn't his Aragorn, and Geralt wasn't sure what to do with the information that the love of his long life was _high king_.

He tried really hard to stay out of human politics, but he'd known Strider for about sixty human years, as near as he could count, and that was almost half of his immortal life, and his love had just been a ranger for that time.

Just like always, he ended up at the back table of a tavern in the 4th circle. That was what he always did, he sat,and he drank.

And like they always did, his humans found _him._

Jaskier was suddenly there, in Middle Earth, playing epic ballads, one of which was a sad romantic ballad about a King and his Elven Queen who sailed away to see her family again after too many long years of separation.

It was almost a let down when the only cloaked figure that could have been Strider slipped in and did not join him, but before Geralt could consider approaching him, Jaskier bounded over.

“Geralt! Geralt! We have an invitation to go to the castle, you have to come!”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. His mind was having trouble catching up to the fact that Jaskier was _here_ of all places. Middle Earth had never come up between them. It was just the neighboring continent that people from the Continent didn't go to.

Because of Kaer Morhen.

But wouldn't Vesemir or one of the others have mentioned that a human had crossed the border? That was part of why it had been built there, after all. 

"Geralt?"

It was probably a testament to Jaskier's growth as a being that as excitable as he was, he hadn't _already_ dragged Geralt off to the castle, which was half the reason Geralt hadn't already dismissed it out of hand.

He didn’t really want to go, but at the same time, Geralt did really want to go see for himself that Aragorn was okay, and Jaskier was implying the invitation was for the both of them. Jaskier also looked so excited to go, _like a puppy_ , that he just couldn’t say no.

He motioned to the ale in his hand, and then took a large gulp of it, but not the last last of it.

Jaskier sighed. "Alright, I get it. You're not going sober this time." Not after Cintra, and not after having not seen Aragorn since Lothlorien.

_What if Aragorn didn't want him anymore now that he was king and Geralt was still just a Witcher._

As Jaskier was sitting, Geralt noticed the cloaked figure slipping out of the tavern. He might have considered following him, but Jaskier’s attention distracted him.

* * *

Geralt was pretty sure that Jaskier did not lead him into the castle through the front entry, but Geralt couldn’t be sure because he had never been to the Citadel before. It seemed more like a servants’ entry, especially with it being right next to a stairwell, which Jaskier began ascending almost without indicating where they were going.

When they reached the third floor, Jaskier exited the stairwell and led the way down the hallway. Geralt was confused because there were no guards, and he was rarely allowed anywhere other than a great hall or conference room. He was pretty sure most of the rooms on this floor should have been bedrooms, which felt wrong.

“Jaskier, where are we?”

Jaskier paused, then turned to look at him. “Will you trust me?”

Geralt nodded. Jaskier was his friend and long time travelling companion, and he would trust the bard. The bard seemed happy, with excitement tinged with just a bit of something he couldn’t place.

They weren’t on The Continent, Gondor was one of the provinces of Middle Earth, the country to the east of the Continent. Most people didn’t travel between the two, and he hadn’t thought to ask Jaskier why he was here in Minas Tirith of all places.

But now wasn’t the time. Right now, Jask wanted him to trust him about whatever was about to occur, and Geralt did. After 20 years, it was impossible not to. “Yes.”

“Okay.” With that, Jaskier kept walking, and then opened a random door.

Geralt didn’t allow anything Jaskier did to surprise him any more. The bard did whatever the bard decided he wanted to do, and at this point, Geralt just did what he could to keep the bard alive. It was the best that he could do. Jaskier hadn’t changed in twenty years, he even still looked the same, and he’d decided a while ago that there was nothing he could do about it. Just keep the kid alive.

There were people in the room Jaskier opened the door into, because of course there were people in there, and there was going to be a stern talking to Jaskier if he had to kill anyone because of Jaskier’s idiocy.

Except… the people in the room were not complete strangers, at least, not all of them.

Geralt’s Strider was in the room, wearing much finer apparel than he’d been wearing on any of the occasions they’d happened to meet in taverns across Middle Earth, as well as the cloaked figure he’d seen in the Minas Tirith tavern and had mistaken as possibly being Strider, but now that Geralt saw his face, realized that this definitely was not Strider- _Oh,_ that _Aragorn, son of Arathorn_ , because with the hood down and facing Geralt, Geralt saw a face that was almost identical to _Jaskier’s_.

“Sup, Dad,” Jaskier said, looking straight at _Strider._

Strider didn’t have the opportunity to react to Jaskier’s brazen statement, because the Jaskier copycat was scrambling out of his seat and launching himself at Jaskier. “Casi! Casi! Thank the Valar, I’m so glad you’re home!”

Jaskier fell to the ground from the force of the lookalike throwing himself at him, laughing as he embraced the other. “Fara, oh Valar, it’s so good to see you, it’s been too long,” he was rambling, a look of pure elation on his face.

There was no way they weren’t twins, Geralt deduced. He’d known that Jaskier had come from a lineage of nobility, but he’d assumed minor nobility. But if the gossip about Aragorn becoming high king were correct, that meant that Faramir was not _just_ from a line of minor nobility. (Assuming that Faramir _was_ Aragorn’s son, and that Jaskier _was_ his twin, and also Aragorn’s son). 

What’s more, Jaskier had never made any mention of having been anywhere near Middle Earth, but it seemed that he was a rather high noble, likely entwined with the family of the high king, if his statement held any truth to it.

He knew that Jaskier wasn’t lying, or at least, not intentionally speaking mistruth, as there was no bitter-sour scent permeating from him as there would be if he were intentionally lying, but it was still a confusing sentiment.

“Faramir, why don’t you introduce your- brother,” Aragorn said after another moment and a hesitation, when neither moved to separate from where they were lying on the floor.

Geralt assumed that confirmed the fact that Faramir was Aragorn’s son, but he couldn’t help but wonder how that had come about. Surely Aragorn would have mentioned at some point that he had children? No less, twins?

The lookalike blushed, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s as he collected himself. Turning back towards Aragorn, he said, “My apologies, Sire. It’s been 25 years since I saw my twin face to face.” He stood up, and then held a hand out for Jaskier. “Aragorn, meet Casimir, third son of Finduilas,” he added once Jaskier was standing.

Jaskier smiled brightly, nodding towards Aragorn. “I’ve been Jaskier for the past 25 years, so forgive me if it takes time to remember to respond to that name again,” he apologized, before turning back to Geralt. “Geralt, this is my brother, Faramir. I’m sure you have several questions, and I promise to answer them later, but it’s been so long…”

Geralt nodded, a barely there smile on his face as he regarded the friend he’d traveled with for so many years. “Go,” he started, waving a hand towards Faramir. He hoped that conveyed the freedom he was giving them. It probably didn’t, but there was one thing more pressing. “Aragorn, can we talk?”

Aragorn’s posture relaxed, and it seemed that he was trying to contain his laughter. “Of course, we can talk. Faramir, you and Casimir? Or do you prefer Jaskier? Can go be free, but if you could rejoin us for lunch, it’ll be here in an hour.”

Faramir nodded, “Thank you,” he said, taking Jaskier’s hand and almost bodily dragging him out of the room in his excitement.

Geralt stepped into the room and allowed the door to close behind him. Jaskier wasn’t wrong about his having some questions, but he wasn’t ready to ask any of them yet because the words weren’t ready to come. The introduction had suggested that while Jaskier knew that Aragorn was his father, Aragorn hadn’t known, so it seemed plausible that Aragorn would want answers himself.

He licked his lips. Small talk was not his forte. Neither was speaking at all. “You’re king now?” That felt like the easiest question to start with, and at least the words came at all.

What he really wanted to know was where the two of them stood, but he couldn’t even verbalize his feelings for Aragorn so that was a definite no.

Aragorn nodded. “The line of ruling stewards is broken, and the people accepted my claim to the throne. Mostly at Faramir’s behest. He was raised as Denethor’s son, the last ruling steward. I would have told you if I’d known I had children.”

Geralt had never considered things like family or lineage or past to be important things to know about a person. He’d spent so long with Thorongil, and then Strider, and then Aragorn, that the rest didn’t matter. So Aragorn happened to have children, what did it matter? Regardless, he felt that he needed to reassure his lover. “I believe you.” He paused for a moment, before shaking his head softly. “Jaskier has a brother.” He couldn’t believe that Jaskier hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, maybe that was something he’d gotten from Aragorn.

Aragorn winced. “He had _two_ brothers. I’m not sure whether I should hope that someone has told him already that his older brother died during the war, or that Faramir will tell him now that he can hear it from someone he’s close to.”

Geralt sighed. “When?” He winced at the harsh note. Jaskier's brother deserved infinitely better than Geralt's _pitiful_ attempt at asking when he'd died.

“It happened several months ago, before the battle of Helm’s Deep.” Aragorn’s voice was soft, considering the situation. “The people would not be speaking of him, when there has been more than enough death during the war, and the people are trying to recover from it.”

Geralt could understand that, and perhaps it was for the best. It would be better for Jaskier to hear of it from someone who loved him than as gossip from strangers. That was why the Witchers always returned the lost amulets to Kaer Morhen. So the deaths were honored by those who knew them, and not by those who celebrated their deaths.

Aragorn stepped forward until he was standing in front of Geralt, and took his hand. “I love you, and I don’t want this to change anything. I only recently found out that Faramir is mine, and only just now that he’s a _twin_ , but I want nothing more than to get to know them and to share them with you.”

The Witcher squeezed Aragorn’s hand. This was significantly more than he was expecting, and he wished that he could voice sentiment as honest and heartfelt as it felt to him. He smiled as he hugged Aragorn. “Jaskier is…” he whispered, wondering what word he could possibly use to describe the eloquent bard. Jaskier would have one word that would cover all over Geralt’s thoughts and then some more. “Incredibly dramatic.” The best bard on the continent.

“I wonder where he got that from…” Aragorn smirked. “I heard some less than favorable things about Denethor’s treatment of his children, especially Faramir. But it must have been even worse for Jaskier if it got so bad he left.”

“He’s a university professor.” Youngest Oxenfurt alum to graduate and teach, best musician on the Continent. Middle Earth didn’t have any universities, as far as Geralt knew. He could see Jaskier fixing that, if the bard decided to stay.

What would he do, if Jaskier decided to stay? He doubted that Aragorn would be leaving any time soon, as the new king there was likely to be many things for him to do, and even if there weren’t, the people needed their king to be focused on their wellbeing and making decisions that were in their best interest. Wandering around the wilds as rangers do was not in the best interest of the people.

If Jaskier stayed as well, he’d be all alone again. There was nothing to draw him back to the Continent, except winters at Kaer Morhen. But Aragorn and Jaskier were only human, they would only live for such a short length of time.

He couldn’t bear the thought of losing them. They were _family._

Aragorn kissed Geralt's forehead. "It's okay, Geralt. You won't lose us anytime soon. I promise. We'll still be here for you to return to between your travels, or whenever you decide to retire."

Witchers did not retire. As he has told Jaskier, they got slow and died when they made one mistake too many.

But maybe… maybe he could take longer reprieves, for the duration of Aragorn's life. Or as long as the ranger turned king still wanted him.

"It turns out I already have heirs," Aragorn whispered. "We could get married, just for the two of us."

"Them," Geralt mumbled, and hoped desperately that Aragorn knew what he was saying. He wanted Jaskier to be there, and Faramir should be there too.

"Just the four of us," Aragorn agreed easily. "If that's what you want, that's what we'll do."

Geralt squeezed Aragorn's hand again. "I love you," he wanted to say, desperately wanted it. But he opened his mouth to say them and the words wouldn't come, stuck in his throat like they got when he was most emotional.

"I know," Aragorn whispered, kissing him.

* * *

In the end, Aragorn just told Faramir and Jaskier that Geralt was his husband when they returned for lunch. They had decided that they didn't need words, or an audience, or an officiator. This was between them.

The twins grinned, and offered their congratulations. Jaskier did so loudly, scrambling forward to hug Geralt while Faramir offered his more quietly.

Lunch had not been brought yet, so it was still just the four of them.

"Fara, you should play something," Jaskier said. "I haven't gotten to hear you play yet."

Geralt was curious what instrument Faramir played, given he did not seem to have one in the room.

* * *

However, Faramir shook his head, looking uncomfortable as his hands fidgeted by his sides. “I haven’t played in so long, it’s been years. Almost since you left. Besides, I’m no good at playing anyway, so it’s not like anyone would be missing out on anything.”

Jaskier considered his twin. "I don't believe that. I seem to recall a bow gliding so delicately across the strings in mesmerizing patterns. Just one song, please?"

Faramir's fingers trembled and Geralt wondered if it was in anticipation or fear. "You're the world famous bard, maybe you should play instead. Surely they'd rather hear your honed craft." He looked over at Geralt and Aragorn, an almost beseeching expression on his face.

“I’d like to hear it.” Geralt was almost surprised at his own words. He’d barely managed to say anything in the time since he and Jaskier had first arrived, but it seemed that he would be able to release the words needed to try and comfort Faramir.

Faramir looked surprised, but it was quickly covered up with a look of caution, as if he was expecting Geralt to take his words back. Not that there was any chance of such a thing happening, as saying anything was hard enough, that he wouldn’t say anything he didn’t mean. Sometimes the words that came were the wrong ones, but he tried so hard to not do that, opting for silence when possible.

Aragorn nodded. "We both would. But perhaps, Faramir, you would feel more comfortable playing a duet with Jaskier?"

Jaskier grinned. "Oh, Fara, won't you please?"

Faramir sighed. "Oh, alright. One song. I'll go get my fiddle." He turned around and retreated from the room. 

Aragorn sighed, shaking his head softly as he turned to Jaskier. “I hope we didn’t pressure him into feeling as if he had no other choice than to play with you.” He looked genuinely worried, and Geralt could understand it.

The words that Faramir had spoken, that he wasn’t skilled, and that no one would enjoy his playing, they weren’t his. They didn’t reek of falsehood, so it was clear that he believed them for himself, but the words also did not hold the same sense that they would have, had they been words of his own creation.

Someone else had told them to him so many times that he believed them.

"Denethor," Jaskier snarled under his breath. It would have been inaudible if not for the trained hearing of those in the room with him. "Fara needs this, and I saw the fiddle myself. It hasn't gone unused. He's always downplayed his talents to keep everyone's attention elsewhere. Nobody would ever suspect him of anything."

"I just want you to be careful," Aragorn warned. "I just don't want to see either of you hurt over this."

Jaskier studied Aragorn. "He needs this," he repeated. "But I appreciate your concern for him."

Aragorn nodded, and he might have said something more but Faramir walked in. He was clutching the neck of the fiddle in his left hand and the bow in his right.

"Okay, one song," Faramir said, leaning the head of the fiddle against his neck and raising the bow to the strings. "What song should we play?"

Even to Geralt, the hold looked forced, and he could see Faramir's right fingers trembling. It wasn’t merely nervousness causing the trembling though, as he could detect the faintest scent of pain from Faramir, but he couldn’t quite figure out the cause.

Jaskier studied Faramir with a critical eye. Geralt recognized it as Jaskier's professoring expression. "Fara! You don't need to lower your playing to my level so that I feel better about you being far better than I am. Especially not since it's clearly aggravating the nerves in your wrist. You deserve to show me up playing your best."

Faramir stared blankly at Jaskier, and didn't move to reposition the fiddle or the bow.

Jaskier sighed. "Switch hands, Fara. It'll feel more natural."

The steward hesitated a moment, and then changed which hand the items were in, bringing the body of the fiddle up to his neck with his right arm and holding the bow above it with his left. His fingers still trembled, but not with pain. The scent of slight pain had been replaced with embarrassment. 

Jaskier settled the lute in his hands. "Just play, Fara. I'll follow your lead."

Faramir shifted uncomfortably, and then drew the bow across the strings. He played a scale and then he repeated it an octave higher. It had a haunting feel to it, not the standard light scales Jaskier tended to practice with.

Despite the tremble to his hand, each note was held distinct from one another.

He came to the last note, inhaled to calm himself, and then sprang into something twice as fast as he'd played the scale, which was still pretty slow. He played eight long notes of a melody Geralt and Aragorn didn't know, cheerful with a hint of melancholy.

Jaskier played the next three notes, descending chords, in unison with Faramir, and then carried the harmony at the same pace as Faramir's melody quickened by half again.

The music alternated between the melancholic minor key with hints of lighter major chords being a temporary cheer to the piece. Sometimes Faramir would ease into a quicker paced section, but the piece began to feel darker, more desperate, leading to a crescendo of near frantic notes, before tapering off into a softer, almost soothing melody.

Geralt was nearly shocked as he recognized pieces of songs that he had heard before, through his travels in Middle Earth. A soft, almost lullaby that had been sung in Rivendell, a traditional dwarven chant, a song of mourning for the lost from Lothlorian, and more. From melodies that even the smallest child had known, to those that had hardly been sung by a single person while walking along a long and winding road, they all combined into a single, interwoven melody, unlike any that Geralt had ever heard before. 

Then the tone shifted, and the hair on the back of his neck was rising, the melody went back to the lament, a chilling series of minor chords in the deeper octave, and Jaskier's counterpoint was not the almost melancholic harmony it had been but instead a slower counter melody that only served to reinforce the longing in the grieving melody.

This… this was Boromir's lament. The haunting melody was Faramir's grief at finding himself all alone, and Jaskier's support for Faramir, along with his own grief at being lost so far from home.

Just as suddenly as the tone had shifted, it progressed in stages until the melancholy had been exchanged for something lighter. Like a new sunrise after bad things had ended. The melancholy wasn't suddenly gone, it was just overpowered by the happier things that had come to pass.

The music ended with a carefully performed duet, Jaskier and Faramir marching note for note of a major chord that carried with it a feeling of finality. It felt like acceptance, as if they were both coming to terms with their situation in the present, and acknowledging that there were some things that they could not change, no matter how much they wished for it.

It was almost heartbreaking to listen to, but then something shifted.

It was faint, but as the pair continued to play, matching each other’s notes, Chaos slowly began to swirl around them, moving through the room in waves as they began to trade off notes, with one playing for a time, before the other would take over. Geralt was vaguely reminded of sparring against other witchers in training, where blows would be traded equally, yet still increasing in complexity and tempo as they continued. The pair were the most talented musicians that Geralt had ever had the opportunity to listen to, and from the stunned look on Aragorn’s face, it was clear that it was the same for him as well.

Jaskier and Faramir were watching each other as they played, wide smiles on both their faces as they finally joined their playing once more, the song quickly coming to a close as the Chaos swelled, bursting through the room in a rush as the pair played through the final measures of the song, allowing the last note to hang in the air for some time, before letting their instruments fall to a resting position.

Faramir winced, setting the fiddle on the table as he flexed the fingers of his right hand. “It’s been too long since I played like that,” he murmured, and Geralt could see the cuts across the pads of his fingers. “I haven’t caused injury to myself while playing in many years.”

“Well, with a little luck, I’ll see you play once more, and you won’t experience such injury again.”

Geralt turned to find the identity of the newcomer, but wasn’t able to find who it may have been, before both Jaskier and Faramir were rushing towards the figure in the doorway, tackling him with a force that made him wince in sympathy.

Aragorn laughed, reaching to hold Geralt’s hand. “Geralt, meet Boromir, their elder brother. I have a feeling that things are about to become very interesting around the citadel.”

* * *

A Witcher, a king, a bard, a steward, and a knight walked into a tavern.


End file.
